Time to Depart (15 page)

XXX

Petronius took charge in his quiet, resigned way.

'Martinus, you're the king of the stolen-property list. Take the nice Etruscan wine bowl to its owner to identify. Maybe you should wash off the blood a bit first. I need sensible answers. Don't give him a chance to get hysterical.'

'I'll have to go to the station house and look up who owns it.' Martinus could be bone idle.

'I don't care how you set about the job,' Petro said, restraining himself

'What if the man wants his bowl back?' asked Fusculus, to calm things.

Petro shrugged. 'Suits me. I can't see us needing to use it as evidence. If it could answer questions I'd put it on a stool and start wheedling, but I reckon the pot's a hostile witness.

He fell silent, though at first he pretended not to notice that a new group of figures were marching into the square. Fusculus groaned quietly. I recognised Tibullinus, the centurion from the Sixth Cohort whom I had not much taken to. He must have been told about the body. He and his sidekick, Arica, came briskly across, flanked by a small honour guard. They folded their arms and stood watching us with a cocky air.

Petro forced himself to look up and gave Tibullinus a brief nod. 'Your patch, but it's one for us - direct bearing on the post-Balbinus enquiry. The pot comes from the Emporium haul, and the victim was my chief suspect.'

'Looks like poor old Nonnius,' Tibullinus remarked to Arica. Arica tutted in mock-tragic style. Making a deliberate survey of all his wounds, they sucked their teeth; then they grinned. Tibullinus viciously kicked an arm straight. They had a callousness that the men of the Fourth lacked. While Petro's group had no tolerance for a gangster's enforcer while he was alive, they still showed grim respect for his mangled body.

Then I overheard Martinus say openly to Arica, 'Some people are going to be grieving that they've lost their paymaster!' It was a jibe, though I could not tell from his tone whether his feelings were jealous or reproving.

Arica and Tibullinus barely glanced at one another. It was Petro who seemed angry, and who brushed the comment aside. 'I assume you're happy for me to take this one on.' His colleagues made a theatrical show of standing aside for him. It may have been accidental, but Petronius then virtually turned his back on them. He gave orders in a low voice: 'Fusculus, get some help and shift the remains. I don't want the whole city talking about this. If it's meant to cause public comment, I'm going to disappoint them. Whip it out of sight. Nab one of the hurdles and carry him to the station house for the time being. Maybe Scythax could take a look. He might be able to tell us something about what went on - though it's fairly obvious.'

Petro seemed too tense for comfort. I noticed the Sixth, having made their presence known like generals on a battlefield, were now melting from the scene. Petro started relaxing as soon as they left.

'Who's Scythax?' I put in.

'A medico attached to our patrols.' The vigiles always had doctors on the squad; they looked after the patrolmen, whose work led to frequent injuries, and when there were bad fires or building collapses they tended civilian victims at the scene. 'Falco, I think you and I should go to the victim's home. Martinus, if you are going to the station house, send a detachment to meet us at the Nonnius place. I'll have to search it, and probably guard it afterwards. Mind you, Rubella won't be happy to allow us the men. . .

Mention of Rubella made me go quiet.

On the way to the Capena Gate we bought bread rolls and munched as we walked. Luckily sight of a corpse always stopped Petro wanting to talk. He must have assumed I was reacting the same way.

We strolled the length of the Circus on the north side, then around its end under the Appian and Marcian aqueducts. As we emerged from their shadow, shopkeepers were unlocking their booths and washing the pavements. There were some decent residential streets but they were interspersed with rougher ones. Interestingly, it was an area of mixed jurisdiction by the vigiles. The First region, which we were just entering, was looked after by the Fifth Cohort, yet we were quite near to the Twelfth region, which as part of the Aventine came under the Fourth. We were also very close to the much seedier quarter where Plato's Academy lurked. That was in the Circus Maximus region, the Eleventh, and like the Forum Boarium it was prowled by the Sixth Cohort.

'Petro, does the fact that three different groups of vigiles are responsible for this triangle have any bearing on the crime that's rife?'

'Probably,' he said. I could not tell him that according to Rubella criminality occurred amongst the vigiles themselves. Do you work closely together?'

'Not if we can help it.'

'Any reason?' I was hoping there would be one.

'I've enough to do without wasting effort on "inter-cohort co-operation"!' Petro sneered.

'Strikes me the cohorts all have different characters?'

'Right. The Fifth are dull, the Sixth are bastards, and as you know, we in the Fourth are unsung heroes with a mature and efficient approach!'

I just hoped I could show that that was the truth.

I took a deep breath. 'Are Tibullinus and Arica on the take?'

'Probably,' said Petro shortly. Something in his manner made me reluctant to ask more.

As we neared the street we wanted, a familiar figure hailed me.

'Marcus!'

'Quintus! I heard you were back from Germany. Oh this is good. Petro, let me introduce you to Camillus Justinus.'

Justinus was Helena's younger brother, a slight, boyish lad of twenty-odd. Today he was in civilian dress - a pristine white tunic and rather casually draped toga. The last time I saw him he had been in tribunal uniform, in the army on the Rhine. I myself had been there on a mission for Vespasian, one Justinus had joined in, acquitting himself bravely. I knew he had been retailed and was now expected to work through the stages of upper-class civilian life, probably ending in the Senate when he reached twenty-five. Despite that I liked him. We embraced like brothers, and I chaffed him about his position.

'That's right. I've been brought back home to be a good boy, and to start planning to cadge votes.'

'Don't worry. The Senate's a doddle. All you have to do is learn to say, "Gods, what a stench!" every time you appear in a crowd, while keeping your teeth bared in a friendly smile in case any of the plebs can lip-read.'

'Well, it's a few years away yet... Justinus sighed. 'I was hoping to see you. I think I'm in love with an actress.'

Petro and I turned to one another and groaned.

'Why do the young always have to make the old mistakes?' I asked. Petro shook his head sadly. Petro and I had been friends with a few stage performers in our day, but now we had responsibilities. (We were too old, too cynical, and too careful with our cash.)

'I think you may know her -' Justinus tried.

'Very probably!' exclaimed Petronius, as if it was nothing to be proud of. Since getting married, he had turned highly self-righteous. I suspected it was a deliberate pose. He hadn't really changed.

'Quintus, don't ask me any favours to do with entertainers! I'm in enough trouble with your family.'

Justinus slipped into his infectious grin. 'That's true - and heading for more! If I see you I am to invite you and Helena to dinner on her birthday. Tomorrow,' he spelt out annoyingly. That reminded me about my lost birthday present problem, and I cursed to myself. 'What you don't know', continued Helena's favourite brother, 'is that someone else has come home from abroad. Somebody who doesn't take kindly to having his sister living with an informer, and who keeps describing in tortuous detail what he would like to do to you.'

'Aelianus?'

'Aelianus.' The other brother, whom I had never met but already disliked. His views on me were plain too; he had written them to his sister with great acrimony. The distress he had caused Helena was more than I could think about.

'Looks as if we're heading for a wonderful evening!' I commented.

Quintus Camillus Justinus, an odd soul who happened to believe I was quite good for his sister, gave me a formal salute. 'You can, of course, rely on my unstinted support, Marcus Didius!'

'Oh thanks!' I said.

He would make a good politician: it was a blatant bribe. So now I had to find time to introduce a senator's son to an actress, then watch him ruin his previously immaculate reputation in a scandalous love affair. No doubt afterwards I would be expected to help this young man tour the city trying to win votes.

Petronius and I were admitted to the Nonnius house by the porter as soon as we shouted our arrival. He seemed relieved that we had turned up to take charge. He came out to greet us carrying a temporary screen and watched us examine the front door, which had been battered open last night so efficiently that little of it now remained. 'They came in a cart with a ram on it. A pointed tree trunk mounted on a frame. They pulled it back on a sling, then let go - it crashed right through.'

Petro and I winced. This was real siege warfare. No house in Rome would be safe from such artillery - and only a daring gang would risk taking that kind of illegal weapon openly through the streets.

The house was silent now. Nonnius had been unmarried and had no known relatives. With him gone, domestic management would come to a full stop.

We walked about unhindered, finding few of the slaves who had been in evidence the last time I visited. Maybe some had run away, either eager to be free or simply terrified. In strict law, when a man was murdered, his slaves were subjected to statutory torture to make them identify his murderer. Any who had denied him assistance would be punished severely. If he was murdered in his own house, his slaves were bound to be the first suspects.

The porter was the most helpful. He freely confessed that strange men had come to the house after dark, had broken down the door suddenly and violently, and rushed past him. He had hidden in his cubicle. Sometime later the men had left. A long time after that he had ventured out. He learned from the others that Nonnius had been dragged away.

None of the other slaves would admit to having seen what was done to their master. At last we found the little Negro who had been his personal attendant; the child was still hiding under a bedroom couch, crazy with fear. He must know the truth, but we got nothing from him but whimpering. Some of the cohort had turned up by then, brought here by Fusculus. Petronius, not unkindly, put the child in the charge of one of them and ordered him to be brought to the station house.

'Put a blanket or something around him!' Petro's lip curled in distaste at the little black boy's fluttery skirt and bare, gilded chest. 'Try and convince him we're not going to beat him up.'

'Growing soft, chief?'

'He's palpitating like a run-down leveret. We'll get nothing if he drops dead on us... . Now let's do a regular search.'

We drew some conclusions from the search. Nonnius had been in bed. Boots were in the bedroom, thrown in different directions, and tunics lay on a stool. The bed stood askew, as if it had been jerked violently; its coverlet had fallen half on the floor. We reckoned he had been surprised and snatched while asleep, or at least only partly awake. Whether he was alive or dead when they took him from the house was debatable, though Petronius decided on him being still alive. There was only a small amount of blood on the bedclothes and the floor-not enough to have been caused by the mass of wounds we had seen on the body.

We should probably only ever find out where they had taken him if somebody confessed. We might never know. What had happened to him in the hour or so that followed his abduction we could all imagine clearly. Most of us preferred not to think about it.

XXXI

As we were leaving the Nonnius mansion someone else made the mistake of trying to arrive. We were keyed up in investigating mode, and surrounded him. He was a lean fellow in a smart white tunic; carrying a leather satchel.

'May we look in the bag, sir?' The man handed it over to Fusculus with a rather dry expression. It was full of tweezers, spatulas and stoneware medicine jars. What's your name?'

'Alexander. I am the householder's doctor.'

We relaxed, but our humour was harsh. 'Well he won't need you now!' 'The patient has suffered a fatal dose of being beaten up.' 'Terminal knife wounds.' 'Irreversible death.'

'I see,' commented the doctor, no doubt thinking of his lost fees.

Petronius, who had not spoken to him before this, said, 'I respect your relationship with your patient, but you will understand my enquiries are very serious. Did Nonnius say anything to you in confidence that might tell us who may have done this?' To judge from his careful phrasing, Petro had had trouble extracting information from doctors.

'I don't believe he did.'

'Well you are free to go then.'

'Thank you.'

Something about the man's manner was oddly restrained. He seemed hardly surprised to have lost his patient in this appalling way. Perhaps that was because he knew what line of business Nonnius had been in. Or perhaps there was another cause.

'There was something peculiar there,' I suggested, as we all walked back to the patrol house.

'He's a doctor,' Petro assured me calmly. 'They're always peculiar.'

If I had not known him better I might have thought something in Petro's own manner seemed oddly restrained too. In view of my special investigation for Titus, I wanted Petronius to behave in ways I understood.

At the station house Petro's young assistant, Porcius, was in deep trouble with a woman. Luckily for him she was extremely old and not worth creating a fuss about. It was another stolen-bedcover case; somebody was going around with a hook on a stick targeting ancient dames who were too bent to chase after a thief. Porcius was trying to write a report for this one; we could see he would be helpless for the rest of the morning unless rescued.

'See the clerk,' Petro told her curtly.

'The clerk's a dozy mule!' She must have been here before. 'This nice young man is looking after me.'

Porcius was a new recruit. He was desperate to arrest as many wrongdoers as possible, but had no idea of how to dodge time-wasters. Petro was unimpressed. 'This nice young man has more important things to do.'

'See the Clerk, please,' muttered Porcius, looking embarrassed.

Indoors we found a nasty scene: a large boulder was lying in the centre of the floor, along with the broken shutter it had been thrown through last night and the wreckage of a stool. Petro sighed, and said to me, 'As you see, sometimes the locals chuck worse things at us than cabbages.'

'They poked some brassica stalks through the cell air hole too,' Porcius told him. 'People round here do seem to think we're short of greens.'

'Well next time forget charitable deeds for grannies, and try to find out who hates the vigiles!'

'That's easy,' grinned Fusculus, rolling the boulder towards the door. 'Everyone does.'

He roared for the foot patrol to stop counting their esparto mats in the firefighting equipment store and come to remove the debris from indoors.

Trying to regain Petro's approval, Porcius announced nervously, 'One of the centurions had been sitting just where it landed, but luckily he'd just gone for a pee. It would have killed him otherwise.'

Petronius, who had merely been frowning with annoyance, checked slightly. 'Right. This looks bad. Fusculus, put the word around the whole cohort: keep alert. We could be in for a dangerous time.'

Frowning, he turned into the small room he used for interrogations, only to find two of the foot patrol's most recent prisoners. One of them was shouting and throwing himself about, nearly throttling himself with the giant ring chained around his neck. The other stayed sullenly silent, a middle- class fire offender who was pretending this was all a nightmare from which a smart lawyer would extract him, probably with compensation for insult and slander. (I could tell from Petro's irritated expression the man was probably right.) With them, huddled on a bench, was the minute black slave from the Nonnius house.

Petro finned at the chaos. 'Shut up!' he bawled abruptly at the half-mad drunken man who was shouting; surprised; the fellow obeyed instantly. 'Fusculus, start asking questions and see if we can let these prisoners go. Unless they're hard nuts, we need the space. Porcius, get Fusculus to tell you what we know happened to Nonnius Albius, then I want you to take this little lad somewhere quiet and make friends with him. If you can deal with indignant grannies, you can handle terrified tots. Win his confidence, then find out what he saw when his master was attacked. He's not arrested, but if he witnessed anything useful I'll want him put somewhere very safe after he's talked.'

Since there was nowhere else private, Petro and I went out for a conference at the chophouse just across the street.

'So what do you think, Falco?'

I chewed a stuffed vine leaf, trying not to think about its consistency and taste. This job promised an endless parade of lukewarm, stand-up food taken squashed against the cracked counters of unhygienic foodshops. Petro did not come from a family that provided lunch baskets. When we were in the legions, he was always the one who never hid spare marching bread in his tunic, though he soon learned to pinch mine. I spat out a rough bit. 'It looks as if the Emporium robbery may have been organised by Nonnius - and that somebody else has punished him rather publicly for daring to think he could.'

We both considered that, eating gloomily.

'Alternatively - ' I offered.

Petro groaned. 'Knowing you, I might have known the easy answer wasn't enough. Alternatively?'

'Nonnius had nothing to do with the raid. Some swine just thinks it would be convenient if the Emporium do was blamed on him to take the heat off them.'

'Bit stupid,' argued Petro. 'So long as Nonnius was alive he was a suspect. Now when these others do a raid, they've no cover and I'll be sure it's them.'

'If you ever find out who they are.'

'I love a chirpy optimist.'

'Helena thinks we should be looking at Lalage for the Emporium.'

Petronius laughed dismissively, then fell silent. Helena Justina's wild ideas had a way of turning themselves over in your head so they soon seemed completely rational. I myself had stopped even thinking they were wild. I had known her to be right too many times.

Petro tried looking at me as if I were daft either to share information with my girlfriend, or to indulge her mad suggestions. Eventually this palled too. 'Suppose that was right, Falco. Suppose Lalage did want to take over running the gangs. Why would she kill Nonnius?'

'She hated him. She had scores to settle. He had leaned on her too heavily when he was collecting for Balbinus. And then he left her with the problem when the Lycian was murdered at Plato's. Besides, if she is ambitious, maybe Nonnius guessed that and tried to apply pressure. He could have blackmailed her and demanded a cut. Since he'd already squealed once in court, he was a formidable threat; he only had to say he would inform on her too. She'd know he could very well mean it.'

'True.'

We were both uneasy. There was not enough to go on. We could only speculate. And although we were both good at making the facts fit in a situation, there was always the unexpected waiting to confound us. Like me, Petro had probably lost count of the times he had found out that the facts he had been working on for months were only marginal. The final story could be wildly different from any theories he had so carefully pieced together.

'Want any more to eat?'

I shook my head. 'No thanks. I had to leave without even saying good morning to Helena. If nothing else turns up, I'll be going home for lunch. Won't you?'

'Suppose so.'

My question had been ironic. I knew Petro always ignored lunch. He went home for dinner with his children in the evening, and sometimes he slipped off if there was a definite household job to do, like mending a window. He enjoyed carpentry. Otherwise, petronius Longus was the type whose domestic life ran smoothest when he stayed out part of the night with the patrols, then lingered at the station house most of the day on follow-up. This applied most of all when Arria Silvia was furious with him for some reason.

I grinned. 'Thought you might need to feed the cat again.' He refused to rise.

It was still too early for lunch. A wise man doesn't stroll home halfway through the morning as if he has nothing else to do. He allows time for the cheese and olives to be bought and set out on the table, then he comes in looking as if he has made a special effort to fit in being with his family.

We discussed what we could do. Other than plug away with routine questioning, the answer seemed to be, not much. 'I really hate this part,' fretted Petro. 'just sitting back, waiting for a tribe of rats to spring something.'

'They'll make a mistake in the end.'

'And how many have to suffer in the meantime?' He felt responsible.

'We both know it will be as few as you can make it. Listen, Rubella wanted me to check up on the Balbinus background and see if anything was relevant to what's going on now.' At my mention of Rubella, Petro scoffed, though in a fairly routine manner. He had no particular grouse. He just hated officers.

He would hate Rubella rather more personally if he ever found out that thanks to him I was spying on the cohort for suspected graft. I tried again. 'What about the Balbinus men?'

Petro answered this one quite calmly. 'As far as I know, Little Icarus, the Miller and all the rest of the mob are still out of Rome. Lying low. I have a pet squealer who lets me know their movements. I can nose him out and check, but if they had been seen in the city he would almost certainly have come to sell me the information.'

'When I interviewed Nonnius there was mention of the Balbinus family, which sounded interesting.'

Again Petro favoured me with a short bark of laughter. 'The wife's a mean bitch. Flaccida.'

'And there's a daughter?'

'The lovely Milvia! Their only child. She had education and culture lavished on her - a classic case of crooks with too much money trying to better themselves through their offspring.'

'Brought up like a vestal. So did she go to the bad?' I asked dryly. I had seen that happen.

'Funnily enough, not apparently. Milvia turned out as innocent as rosebuds - if you believe her version. She claims she never knew what her papa did for a living. She's been married off to an equestrian who had some money of his own - one Florius, son of a minor official. Florius never intended himself to be better than anyone. He goes to the races most of the time. I don't think he's ever been known to do anything else.'

'So he's not involved in criminal activities?'

'Other than having more money to bet with than anyone deserves, no.'

'There was a large dowry then.'

'Probably,' said Petro. 'Balbinus kept the details obscure. Suffice it to say, Milvia and Florius live in style, apparently having little to do with each other but both content to stick it out in harness. This leads me to suppose there is cash which they want to keep their hands on.'

'Fascinating. I might go and see these colourful folk.' 

'I thought you might.'

Petronius would probably have come with me but just then a messenger from Rubella hurried up. Since Nonnius had been a judicial informer of some importance, his sudden death had caused questions from on high. Rubella wanted Petronius at the cohort headquarters to prepare a report.

Petro growled. 'This is how crimes go unsolved! Instead of asking painful questions of villains, I spend my time helping Rubella make up lies. Falco, if you're wandering among the Balbinus set, you ought to have a witness with you. I can't spare anyone just now. Wait until this afternoon and I'll find someone.'

'I don't need a nanny.'

'Take a witness!' he growled. 'With this bunch it's policy.' 

'Is that why Fusculus made sure he came with me when I went to see Nonnius?'

'Fusculus is a decent, well-trained agent.'

Trained to interfere with me, apparently. Annoyed, I found the thought of cheese and olives reasserting itself. 'Well if I have to wait for a minder, I'll nip off home. Send whoever it is to Fountain Court, will you?'

'You're getting soft!' he snorted.

I wanted to explain that Helena was pregnant, but it seemed too soon after I had so firmly denied it. With yet more guilt depressing me, I left him to pacify his tribune while I sauntered off to see my girl.